


To End A Tale

by twistedthicket1



Series: Reincarnate [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Romance, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>here is the little epilogue for this tale :D I hope you all enjoyed! thanks so much for the lovely comments and kudos!  And thanks again to Anihan for the prompt that started it all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	To End A Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anihan (Nakagami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nakagami/gifts).



 

 

A life ended with The Fall of one John Watson and James Moriarty.

 

Later on, Sherlock would reflect on how close he had come to having his world end with it.

 

As it is, there are mornings he wakes up and has to reach out and touch, just to make sure that this is real, that he is alive. That the image that haunts the back of his eyelids when he falls asleep is only an illusion.

 

John apologises for the nightmares every time he wakes to Sherlock, sitting wide awake and unblinking in the dark. What he doesn't realise is that Sherlock's not just thinking about his figure leaping off of the roof of St. Bart's hospital. No, that is part of it but not the whole picture. Rather, he is awake and trying to recall the multiple lives he has lived, trying to find a moment when he had been as scared as in the instant he thought John Watson had died.

 

He finds none.

That evening, he doesn't explain why he wordlessly pulls John away from his laptop, curling around him protectively as if he can shield the man from the rest of the world if he tries.

He doesn't have to, because John can understand why.

 

Waking up in the hospital he had leapt off of nearly three days after his Fall, John had literally thought for a moment that the white walls surrounding him was the afterlife.

Even Sherlock's presence, sitting as his side like a dark shadow in a room of ivory, hadn't been exactly reassuring to the doctor's drug-addled mind.

 

The detective yelling at him however, loud enough for half the hospital to hear and then some had cleared some details for him somewhat. For a while, John worries that Sherlock might refuse to talk to him ever again, except that in the middle of the last night he has to spend in the hospital he finds the detective curled against him as close as he can make it. John spends that night running his fingers through his lover's hair, a small smile of relief on his face even as he feels Sherlock's fingers tighten in his nightgown as if he's terrified to let go.

 

****

The first thing Greg does is divorce his wife. It retrospect, it seems like a rather morbid thing to celebrate, and yet he finds himself lying in bed with Mycroft, drinking a glass of good wine and feeling as though he's never been happier.

It was falling apart anyway, his kids were already old enough to have seen that and not really care. In fact his eldest daughter had wished him the best, a huge smile on her face as she whispered to him

“ _Say hi to the government man for me. Met him once while getting a glass of water in the night. He made me a nice cuppa tea.”_

 

He finds himself counting the freckles along Mycroft's arms absently, revelling in the fact that for the first time, he feels whole. Layer upon layer of separate lives have congealed into this, and he can't help but taste the salt of sweat and the tang of good drink and think to himself that for the first time in a long while,  _he truly feels alive._

 

And looking up at Mycroft, a small smile forms on his lips before he leans forward to peck a chaste kiss atop of his brow.

 

“I should like to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He murmurs against the blankets, and the government official blinks in shock and love. His hold tightens on his partner, and throat feeling suddenly thick and heavy, Mycroft touches the place where the  _ **Mark**_ used to lie. His fingers brush only smooth skin. He thinks of the countless lifetimes where he's lost this, again and again. How he's had to witness it slip through his fingers, always sent back to square one. Like a twisted game of Monopoly that had stretched its welcome far too long.

 

How he'll never have to wait again.

How he's lived on half-lives with this man, always craving to spend even just a second more.

 

How now, he gets to.

 

“ _Always.”_  He breathes.

 

****

 

Everyone loses their powers. It makes sense, in a way. Athena's spell cursed them with abilities beyond any mortal's comprehension, and so with the absence of her magic the powers were lost. All of them are truthfully relieved, if a little bit sad, to see them go.

 

They each now have a future ahead of them, and John finds more than a few gift baskets at his door by show of gratitude.

Sally plans on travelling the world. She wants to see every country for herself, to get lost in the feel of mortal life without heavy sin weighing her down. She's lighter now that she's not bearing Sherlock's pride, happier. John privately thinks it's a little startling, how young her face now appears.

 

Lestrade still works for the Yard, bringing Sherlock cases when he's bored or when the police are out of their depth (which is  _always_ on  _both_ accounts).

 

Anderson is still a dick, but even he pulls John aside and stiffly thanks him, eyes locked on the ground the entire time in embarrassed shame.

 

Mrs. Hudson can't see through time any more, and yet she still knows exactly when she is needed.

 

 

Life in  _ **221 B**_ is worth living.

 

And no one seems to know this better than Sherlock Holmes, who makes the most of every morning waking John up with horrible violin playing, only to press his lover against the wall in a kiss that speaks of a longing pent up for millenia.

 

And even though Sherlock is still wary of heights (and refuses _adamantly_ to let John climb any more roofs without him by his side) he is so  _very_ much alive.

 

The next time he sees Isobel, it is many years later. She stands across the streets in broad daylight. Her hands are shoved in her pockets, but a smile is on her face. She looks to the good Army Doctor, chasing after a tow-headed little boy with all the freedom in the world, and looks up at the Detective. Her eyes are still a swirling vortex of colours, strange and inhuman, but her voice is decidedly kind.

 

“So he was the one all along. The only one that could set you free.”

 

Sherlock's reply is steady, green-blue eyes gazing at his entire world. His voice is filled with a tender pride he would never admit he had out loud.

 

“He always has been. John. I think I waited so long for him, just so that he _could_.”

She snorts under her breath.

 

"You've never been one to believe in Fate."

 

Sherlock shrugs, dark coat flapping about him like a cape with the chill spring breeze. With it comes the scent of flowers, the earthy smell of new life.

"Never had a reason to before."

 

_The End_


End file.
